


Alphabet Noodle Soup

by potatojuiceplease



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Dark Past, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Sickfic, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatojuiceplease/pseuds/potatojuiceplease
Summary: For the first time since he was eight years old, Jean Moreau is ill. Which brings him nausea, sickie from the afternoon practice, and his roommate Jeremy Knox's alphabet noodle soup of immortality. Or, that time when Jean Moreau opened up about why he doesn't like being touched by anyone but Jeremy.





	Alphabet Noodle Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_oxfordcomma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_oxfordcomma/gifts).



> Warning: issues that may be triggering, such as torture, rape, and psychological abuse, are referenced and explicitly spoken about. If they might affect you in any way, please don't read this. Your safety comes first, always!

Right when he was about to score on Laila, Jean sneezed so hard that the racquet fell off his hands. It landed on his foot with a heavy ‘thud’, the ball rolling to the side smoothly, and a stab of sharp pain rocketed from his toes all the way up his leg. Cursing through gritted teeth a quick “ _Merde, alors_ ,” he bent down to get his racquet, but crouching made him dizzy with nausea and a dripping nose. When he rubbed his wrist against the latter, it came off stained with something sticky and disgusting.

“Moreau?” called Alvarez, jogging up to him.

“I’m good,” said Jean, shaking his head. Because of the new wave of nausea it bought him, he regretted doing so. “Sorry.” He picked his racquet from the floor and held it in position, looking at the girl in the eye. “I’m good,” he repeated.

Alvarez arched both eyebrows and reached out to plant her index on Jean’s nose. The foreign touch on his face made him cower, and for a second he expected her to spill his blood. Then he blinked, and his surroundings were red and gold and not black, safe and not hostile, friendly and not threatening, and he was okay and not in danger. If Alvarez noticed, she chose not to let him know. Instead she said, “Nope. Your nose’s leaky like Jeremy’s marks. Definitely not good.”

“Hey!” complained Jeremy from the middle of the court. “I heard that, Alvarez.”

She ignored her captain and said, “Maybe take it easy for the rest of the training.”

“No. I said I’m good,” snapped Jean, a little harsher than intended. She ignored him as well in favour of returning to her position, and sticking out her tongue at Jeremy on her way.

Even with his Raven reflexes—which made playing similar to breathing in the sense that, unless he put an active effort in it being otherwise, he did it automatically—, Jean was unable to push through the rest of the training. A few minutes after he had assured Alvarez he was good, he tripped over his own feet while trying to outrun her, and when he hit the floor he couldn’t make himself get up. Now his head throbbed with a buzzing numbness, making him feel _slow_ and _clumsy_.

The Trojans stopped running around the court to check on him, which made the situation twice as embarrassing. Jean knew it was his fault that they had had to stop the training again, and briefly thought of the punishment it would have earned him somewhere else. Evermore disliked the weak, and today he was very weak. He couldn’t even hold his racquet.

“Cut the crap you're gonna try to sell me. You’re not good.” Alvarez offered him a hand to pull him to his feet, which took him a whole second to accept. “Jeremy, kick him off practice for the day.”

Jean’s eyes felt swollen, but he did his best to have them look at Alvarez angrily. “I said I’m good,” he repeated.

“And I said you cut the crap.” In a quick movement, Alvarez stole his racquet. “Whatever you say, you’re not good, and you’re not pushing yourself any further.”

“Give it back. I can go on.”

“Sure. And I can jump off a cliff and see what happens, but it’s just as stupid.”

“Exy isn’t anywhere near killing yourself.”

Having walked over to them, Jeremy shook his head, siding with Alvarez. “No, but for some reason you tend to push it in that direction. You can’t play when you’re like this, Jean, Alvarez’s right. Do yourself a favour, and call it a day.”

From the goal, where she had leaned against one of the posts, Laila nodded, arms folded across her chest. “No one’s going to judge you for being human, Moreau. Take it easy. Have a hot shower, go to sleep early. Treat yourself a little, will you?”

Jean frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but Jeremy shook his head, warning him that he could argue all he wanted, because they weren’t going to change their minds. So he snorted, turned around, and left the court seething, and when he closed the door behind him and the others resumed their drills he tried to ignore the low melody of Exy being played that tried to lure him back inside.

After he took off his armour and the clothing beneath, he stepped below one of the shower heads and let the water run, head low and eyes closed as he felt the small streams hit his upper back. Then he threw his head backwards and welcomed the hot rain on his face, suddenly very tired and sleepy. Normally he would try to scrub his body to chase away the sweat, then dry himself vigorously until he felt clean. But today it was easier to just stand under the shower and allow himself to waste a little time, just a few minutes, because it was relaxing, and he was tired. Very tired.

He didn’t notice he had dozed off until his head hit the tiled wall in front of him, and when it happened, he startled and nearly slipped. Fully awake now, he stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in his towel, embarrassed even if no one had witnessed the scene. Cracking his head open against the floor after dozing off in the shower would have been pretty pathetic. As he dressed up in casual clothing, the dizziness and sluggishness returned, hitting him so hard that he had to sit down on a bench. Breathing through his mouth, which for some reason made him feel vulnerable, he tried to remember being sick before, at Evermore.

Nothing came to him. One time, Kevin had had to stay in bed for three days, but it had been out of sheer exhaustion. It had been right before the finals, and Kevin had been pushing himself too far the whole league. Riko wasn’t happy to have him off the court for so long. Coach Moriyama, on the other hand, made sure that everyone knew how Kevin’s sacrifices to improve his game were expected from every one of them. And Jean, Jean stayed by Kevin’s side.

Now there were no Ravens to stay by his. This bird had drifted away from the flock, unexperienced when it came to flying alone, and was now facing the consequences.

“Jean.” Jeremy entered the changing room with the helmet tucked under his arm, running a hand through the mess atop his head. “Sorry, Jean, I didn’t mean to leave you alone. I didn’t realise what I was asking from you. Alvarez’s gonna take care of the rest of the training, though, so you and I can head to the dorm. I solemnly swear I won’t ditch you again.”

Jean hadn’t noticed how much being alone was freaking him out until he saw Jeremy. Relief soothed him, and he hated himself a little for it. “I can go alone,” he assured his captain, the lie burning like acid on his tongue.

“Alright, you can.” Jeremy sat down besides him, and began taking off his guards. “But the point is, you don’t have to.”

“Jeremy…”

“Here, have these while I shower. I’ll be quick, I promise.” Jeremy rummaged through his duffel bag, and handed him a packet of honey-scented tissues. “Be right back.”

Peeling off his socks before heading to the showers in his pants only, Jeremy left. Now the solitude sank in noticeably, and Jean felt it claw at his guts. Just to kill time, he blew his nose until he ran out of tissues. Now his nose worked again, more or less, though not for long. Then he checked his phone. But Renee hadn’t replied to his message, no one else had written to him, and his therapist hadn’t called. Surely he would later in the afternoon. Jean put the cell away, listening to the quiet sound of water running, and busied himself with his sneakers, undoing the laces and doing them again over and over.

Because his head hung low, his nose was soon blocked again. All of Jean felt bunged up, actually. Bunged up and annoyed by existence.

“Alright, almost done.” With only a towel around his waist, Jeremy walked over to Jean. “Can you give me my clothes? Don’t want to wet my things.”

Nodding half-heartedly, Jean grabbed Jeremy’s jeans, T-shirt, and socks, and handed them to him weakly. Jeremy was quick to dress up, and Jean stared at his feet until he was done. Most of the Trojans used the stalls, but Jeremy was liberal enough with his body that he didn’t give a shit who was watching and who wasn’t when he changed. This translated into him doing it in the middle of the room whenever he didn’t feel like getting inside a cubicle with his bag, and Jean lowering his eyes as he waited for a stall to be free.

“Okay, we’re good to go. Sorry, Jean, but I’m with Alvarez. You look miserable today.”

After stuffing his training clothes inside his bag, Jeremy took it and also Jean’s, one hanging from each shoulder. Even though Jean protested and tried to get his bag back, the Trojans' captain dodged his awkward attempts at it and headed towards the door, whistling.

“Knox. My bag.”

“Uh-nuh. Sick privilege.” Jeremy held the door for Jean, clicking his tongue. “Brr. It’s cold outside today.”

Jean was wearing a peacoat, but still shivered at the drop in temperature, of at least five degrees. Fingers slow and clumsy, he buttoned his coat, and stuffed his hands inside its pockets in hopes that they would thaw out. On the other hand, Jeremy was wearing a sleeveless hoodie only, tanned arms exposed to the merciless chill of the Californian night. “ _Ballot_ ,” muttered Jean, looking at him. “It’s late November. You should wear something warmer. You’ll come down with a cold.”

For some unfathomable reason, Jeremy smiled at that, revealing his upper teeth. He slowed his pace until he was besides Jean, then laced his fingers through the latter’s scarred ones. “Then we can be sick together,” he said happily.

Jean was taller, and broader, and a few months older, than Jeremy. Somehow Knox managed to make him feel the other way round, young and inexperienced and small. In a way completely different from Riko’s. A good way.

“Only idiots would want to be sick.” His nose was congested again, so Jean sniffed sharply. It didn’t work. “Idiot.”

“Can’t really argue with that.” Jeremy sank his free hand inside the pocket of his jeans, getting out his car keys when they reached the vehicle. Despite being loaded with the two duffel bags, he still managed to gentlemanishly open the door for Jean. Then he dropped the bags on the backseats, and slid into the driver’s seat. After slamming his door shut—Jean suspected it would break one day from Jeremy’s abuse—, Jeremy reached over the little buttons on the dashboard and pressed a few, reaching across Jean for the air vents on his side. He opened them to their fullest and turned them towards Jean.

Jeremy started the engine, and let it hum for a few seconds before gently speeding up. The pavement rattled under the tyres as they exited the USC court’s parking lot, and crunched when they hit the road. Unable to sit still and in silence, Jeremy reached for the radio without taking his eyes off the road ahead of them, turning a small wheel and pressing the volume buttons. Katy Perry’s _Teenage Dream_ filled the car. Jeremy started humming to it immediately. Although he was a terrible singer, he really did his best to strike the right notes, and for some reason Jean found it relaxing. He leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed.

After Katy Perry came an announcement, then Taio Cruz’s _Dynamite._ As soon as a single clapping sound came off the speakers, Jeremy began throwing his head forwards and backwards to the rhythm of it, reminding Jean of a manic dove. “If it’s too loud, you tell me,” shouted Jeremy before turning it up. “I CAME TO DANCE, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE!”

It was nearly deafening, but Jean still felt guilty because Jeremy had missed the last part of the training for him. So he said nothing. Besides, the song was in the playlist Laila and Alvarez had put together for gym practices, and it reminded him of long mornings working out and sweating as he felt himself getting back in shape, getting _better_. It sent a nice feeling rolling through him. Nice enough that, when the chorus came in, he whispered the lyrics quietly, smiling at Jeremy’s flat yelling. Their drives to the dorms were usually like this. Against everything Jean had grown used to in the Nest.

 _Jeremy_ was against everything Jean had grown used to in the Nest.

When Jeremy parked his car and killed the engine, the radio fell silent, cutting Rihanna off mid-verse. He unfastened his seatbelt and got out of the car to get the two duffel bags. Jean, who had fallen pleasantly half-asleep despite the music, groaned before getting out as well.

“I’d carry you to the dorm in my arms, but you’d kill me.” Jeremy patted Jean’s shoulder before tousling his hair. “We can take the lift, though.”

“I’ve got a cold, Jeremy, not a broken ankle.” Still, Jean obediently followed him to the metal doors, and waited besides him until, a few seconds after Jeremy had pressed the button, they tinged open. “We could have used the stairs.”

With a sigh, Jeremy rubbed his eyes. “We could,” he let out a small breath, “but we didn’t have to. You don’t have to do everything you can do just because you _can_. You’re free not to do things.”

His words reminded Jean of dark halls and broken fingers and _You’re mine and you will do as I say._ A familiar choking feeling washed over him. Jeremy must have noticed, because he reached out for Jean’s fingers to hold them. When the lift doors opened again, they walked out, and Jeremy didn’t let go. Instead he led Jean to their room, 403, and held him until he had to pull away to drop the bags on the couch. Then he unbuttoned Jean’s peacoat and helped him take it off, and asked Jean to crash on the couch, or the bed, or wherever he wanted to, while Jeremy took care of everything else.

“Tonight I’m on cooking duty,” he said, pointing a finger at Jean. “Don’t even _try_ to say you’ll do it. I don’t want your viruses all over dinner.”

“Weren’t you all about being sick together twenty minutes ago?”

“There are ways and ways to get ill, Moreau, and you sneezing on my plate while you cook is one of the most disgusting ones I can think up.”

Jean snorted. Jeremy shook his head.

“Seriously. Take a shower, watch the TV, do your homework, whatever. But stay away from anything that involves actual effort. I’ll knock you out with the pan if I have to.”

And Jean knew he would, and have no regrets afterwards. So he went to the bedroom to get warmer clothes, feeling like his head was filled with cotton, before heading to the bathroom to have another shower. He was almost shivering, as if he were still outside, but the second he stepped inside the shower and let the water run something exploded inside of him, sending waves of scorching heat throughout all his body and making the lukewarm water unbearable. So he turned the tap violently and clenched his teeth, relaxing only when the water ran cold enough to cool him down. The second it did, he sighed and pressed his palms against the wall in front of him, suddenly sore and exhausted. He immediately started thinking about all the things he had to do, from three assignments due next week to the laundry. But it was difficult to focus on anything, so after a few seconds his mind wandered off, and he didn’t have the energy to get it back on track.

He remembered Laila had been laughing so hard she was bent over, gasping for dear air and saying that her belly hurt, as Jeremy and Alvarez had a heated argument about the best way in which Rose and Jack could’ve fit. Neither Laila nor Jean could care less about _Titanic_. Both Jeremy and Alvarez were invested enough to draw the door on the boys’ room floor, have pictures taken in every position they had come up with, and poll the rest of the team about which one was smarter.

(It was Alvarez’s.)

He also remembered one of his several snaps at the team, because he couldn’t understand why the Trojans insisted on behaving like having fun was more important than winning. All the team had looked at him when he exploded, then patiently waited for him to be finished before Jeremy said, “Well, it takes less energy and pays off more, maybe try it one day?”. Jean had wanted to punch him.

He remembered as well that one time when Jeremy had been so busy with finals, Jean had tried to apologise for his constant outbursts by getting him dinner from the athletes’ dining hall. It hadn’t gone well, because Jean had done it alone, and Ravens weren’t meant to be alone. But Dylan, another teammate, had found him right before his panic attack peaked, and helped him back to the dorm with soothing reassurance. Jeremy never found out. He told Jean that although he was proud of him, and was absolutely grateful for the meal, he should tell him the next time he wanted to go somewhere. That was when Jean knew Kevin and he had been talking about Jean, about the Raven Jean had been turned into by Riko and Coach Moriyama. It should have made him feel exposed, but instead he felt safe.

Now the water was too cold.

“Jean,” called Jeremy, his voice low and muffled by the bathroom door. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Going.” Shaking, Jean stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself with his towel, then put on his clothes before meeting Jeremy. Jeremy was busy setting the table, but when Jean tried to reach for some cutlery with feeble fingers he looked at him like he might stab his hand with a knife if he touched anything. So Jean collapsed on a chair, arms on the table and head resting on them, too tired to argue with Jeremy.

“I made some soup,” announced the latter, leaving two porcelain bowls on the table. “Alphabet noodle soup. Worked every time when I was little, so let’s give it a go. It’ll do you good, Sleeping Beauty.”

Jean forced himself to change to the seat where Jeremy had put a bowl and a spoon for him, sinking gracelessly into the chair, and looked down at the soup. The small, rounded letters and numbers floated in the broth, which smelled warm and delicious and homely. Without a word, he grabbed the spoon and tried Jeremy’s alphabet noodle soup that worked every time when he was little, and that turned out to be pleasantly good. Sometimes Jeremy got a bit of a loose hand with salt when he cooked, but it hadn’t been the case.

“Well?” Expectation written all over his face, Jeremy bent forwards. “You feeling any better already? Told you it was good.”

“I only had a spoonful.”

“Then have some more.” Pointing at the small kitchen to his right with his thumb, Jeremy added, “I think I cooked enough for the whole team, so you can have as much as your body needs to start feeling like its old self.”

Blinking only to discover that his eyelids were growing heavier, Jean ran a hand through his wet hair. “We’re going to be eating soup to the day we die, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“Yup. Maybe it’ll turn us immortal.”

Even though Jeremy sounded dead serious about it, Jean doubted alphabet noodle soup would make them live forever. Instead of telling him, he sank the spoon inside the bowl again. As he moved it towards his mouth, he caught a glimpse of some letters. P X L S E O H. It made no sense whatsoever. He stuffed it inside his mouth. Well, if he read it from right to left, it went H O E S L X P. Which was funny because it said ‘hoe’, but still made no sense. Another spoonful, and he realised that, if he took out the O, the S and the X, it read ‘help’.

And he might be in need of some help indeed, because he was giving too much thought to Jeremy’s alphabet noodle soup of immortality. That wasn’t even going to make him immortal.

Sick sucked.

* * *

Jeremy insisted on cleaning up too, so Jean remained in his seat, head on the table and hands curled one around the other tightly between his thighs, and watched his captain do the dishes. Just like every time Jeremy got near a scrubber, the countertop ended up covered in lather. Jeremy wiped it off with his hand, making a bigger mess of it, then turned around and leaned back against the counter to look at Jean.

At first none of them spoke, allowing a comfortable silence to settle between them. Jean absent-mindedly thought that one day he wanted to count the freckles scattered across Jeremy’s nose and cheeks. Feverish thoughts of a feeble mind, most probably. Jeremy would’ve never survived in the Nest, just like a sunflower would never survive inside a cave. He was too good to be a Raven. Jean himself had barely made it through, and he wondered if his close call meant he was good, too, a little at least.

Then Jeremy interrupted his trail of thought by saying, “Hey,” in a low voice that Jean caught only because it was really quiet. Nothing else, just ‘Hey’.

So Jean hey-ed him back. Nothing else, just another ‘Hey’.

Riko would have destroyed him.

Riko wasn’t around anymore.

Riko was dead.

Death was painful.

But it had freed him.

Good Lord, his eyes were heavy.

Jean was beginning to fall asleep on the table, his field of vision narrowing into a thin slit blurried by his eyelashes. Because his nose was blocked again, he parted his lips and drew small, superficial breaths. A hand gently ran from the back of his neck up to his very hair line, then down to his nape again, where kind fingers rubbed Jean’s skin back and forth, then in circles. Jeremy whispered near Jean’s ear, “You’re dozing off.”

For all response, Jean let out a grunt.

“Tables are uncomfortable, Jean. I’m taking you to your bed, okay?”

Another grunt. Then Jeremy put his hands under Jean’s armpits and pulled him up to his feet, kicking the chair in their way, then put Jean’s arm around his shoulders.

“You really are sick, aren’t you.”

“ _Évidemment_.”

“Which part of France were you from?”

“Marseille.”

Jeremy’s skin was cool against Jean’s. It was comforting. Jean actually leaned into the touch, which made Jeremy startle.

“You—Jean, are you okay with this? I mean the touching.”

“ _Bien sûr que oui. T’es frais._ ”

“My vocabulary in French consists of ‘baguette’ and ‘croissant’, but I hope that was a conscious yes.”

When they reached the dorm, Jeremy pushed the covers out of the way, then helped Jean down before covering him with the sheets. As soon as he was lying on the mattress, Jean curled up on his side, and tucked his closed fists under the pillow, below his cheek. The one on which a number 3 had been inked a long time ago.

Despite his non-working nose, he knew the room smelled of citrus, thanks to Jeremy’s grandmother homemade freshener—of orange, lemon, lime, and grapefruit.

Jean felt extremely weak, like he might melt from the nausea inside of him. He wasn’t familiar with this sensation, and he wasn’t enjoying it so far.

“Are you good, or do I look for the extra blankets?” Jeremy moved towards the wardrobe, and put a hand on the knob.

“ _Non. Viens ici._ Come here.”

Lifting his eyebrows, Jeremy said, “You _really are_ sick.” But he obeyed nonetheless. When he settled besides Jean the bed creaked, sinking slowly. Letting out a sigh, he added, “Jean, may I tell you something?”

“Hm.” Jean rolled to his left, which meant now he was curled up against Jeremy’s side. Their bodies weren’t touching. It was the closest Jean had ever been in bed to someone without it being because of— “ _Qu’est-ce que c’est?_ ”

“Have you noticed that when you get sick, you don’t stop speaking French?”

“The last time I was sick, I was eight and still lived in Marseille. Of course I didn’t stop speaking French.”

Jeremy snorted. “Don’t go smartass on me, Moreau.”

“Was that your question?”

“Absolutely not.” Shifting on the bed, Jeremy propped himself up on his elbow, and looked down at Jean. “In fact, I had a few.”

“Shoot.”

With his eyes closed, Jean waited for the question patiently. It took Jeremy a few seconds, as if he were building up the courage to speak. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I asked Kevin, but he only said ‘Riko’, and hung up. Why don’t you do touching?”

“Touching?”

Jeremy pursed his lips and looked away. “Yeah. Like, if we’re celebrating you’ll linger on the outside of the hug, or if you see someone you’ll simply wave. Now it isn’t as obvious, but when Alvarez hugged you on your first day on the court, you nearly hit her with the racquet.”

It hadn’t been what Jean had been expecting, because Jean hadn’t been expecting Jeremy to have noticed. He swallowed and chose his words carefully. Not because they would hurt Jeremy, but because they could hurt Jean himself. “It brings back… Memories,” he said at last. “Dark ones. Ones I wish didn’t exist.”

“From the Nest.” No question tag, only soft certainty.

“Riko wasn’t planning on me,” said Jean. He rubbed the nail on his right thumb with the index as he spoke. “When Kevin was acquired by Coach Moriyama, it was because he was going to serve a purpose. Future of Exy with Riko. Legend. Raven. But I wasn’t. My father had contracted a debt with the Moriyamas that he couldn’t afford. So he sold me to Coach, and in return Coach repaid the debt. But Coach wasn’t interested in me, didn’t have the time to train me. I had potential, but I didn’t have _the_ potential. Not like Kevin. Not like Riko. Besides, when I first got to Evermore I was angry and betrayed. More than I had ever been. My parents had sold me.”

Careful, Jeremy reached for Jean’s hand and took it in his, squeezed it once. Then let it go. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Jean. If it brings back the pain, if it hurts, then just drop it. I’m not getting mad at you or anything.”

“So I became Riko’s responsibility.” Jean went on rubbing his nail. He went on speaking too. “I became Riko’s problem. My attitude was his to fix. As long as I was good enough on court, and behaved, Coach didn’t care what Riko did of me. Once he told me I was less than property, when I snapped at him for making fun of me in front of the whole team, then made them all watch as Riko sliced my fingertips open. Then Riko made me break my own fingers. The next day, I had to play, and when I bled so much I couldn’t hold the racquet, they made me pick it up again and go on. Extra drills. But I still wouldn’t bend, so Riko tried waterboarding me, curious whether it would be effective. It was.

“My spirit started breaking soon enough. Anger doesn’t make you invulnerable to knives or fists or flights of stairs. Then I made a huge mistake when I was sixteen. During a match, a dealer tackled me to the floor. My stitches split open, too recent, from only two days before, and I refused to get up. I just couldn’t move. Something… Inside of me, something had broken, and I just didn’t have enough strength to fix it. Coach took it as a new outbreak of rebellion, and told Riko to take care of it. That night, Riko brought Williams into my room. At first I didn’t understand, and I thought Williams was there to help Riko beat me up. Then Williams took off his shirt, and I understood. When he put his hands on me, I begged him to please not do this to me. It was useless. Every time I asked him to stop, Riko hit me, and laughed then told Williams to do it again. He brought four more Ravens to my bed before it stopped. Engle. Johnson. Volkov. West.”

Jean stopped, because the words had stopped flowing uncontrollably at last, and blinked. Aside from Kevin, Jeremy was the first person with whom Jean had talked about Riko’s abuse in detail. He was too lost in his memories yet to care. All around him were black walls. The young man lying next to him was a Raven. The soreness and exhaustion he was experiencing came from Coach’s intensive drills. Tomorrow was nearly today, so he’d better get some sleep. He had to do well. He had to do. He had to.

With an unknown softness in his voice, Jeremy asked, “What made it stop?”

For some reason, Jean thought, Jeremy sounded fragile. It wasn’t him who had taken the blows, it wasn’t him who had been receiving stitches every week, it wasn’t him who had been profaned for no other reason than sheer cruelty. That had been Jean. But it was Jeremy who was coming apart. Maybe because Jeremy was still whole, while Jean had been nothing but scattered pieces for a long time. Because he still had room to break.

Although the reason for him cracking, Jean couldn’t fathom. Instead of sharing this, he shared what he had been asked for. “Boredom. When West came into my room, it hadn’t happened for a month and a half, but it had worn me down all the same. Some nights I couldn’t sleep a wink, in fear that the moment I closed my eyes, Riko would bring someone else into my bed. Some others I couldn’t wake up, because sleeping was the closest thing to death.”

“Holy shit, Jean.”

“At first I thought it was because I had been behaving. But Riko kept on punishing me, so no. Then he brought West, and I realised it had been because he had taken his time to find someone careless enough to be worse than the other four together. And when I saw West, I understood that fighting back would be useless. West was so much bigger than anyone else in our team, he could really hurt me with a single thrust if Riko asked him to. Begging for mercy wouldn’t lead me anywhere. So I didn’t say anything, but instead let West take whatever the heck he wanted from me. It was boring enough that Riko never tried it again.”

Jean had expected it to hurt more— telling the truth, _his_ truth. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt, because it did. Much. But for some reason it relieved him too, because the haunted look in Jeremy’s eyes made him feel validated. Believed. For the first time in years, he felt that his fear and anger had been legit.

Slowly, Jeremy sat up. “Should I get off the bed?”

“No. It’s fine. It’s been a while since that… It’s fine. Really.” His body was heating up again, so he lowered the sheets to his waist, lying on his back.

Although he didn’t get up, Jeremy didn’t lie down either. He remained cross-legged, hands resting on his feet. Knowledge weighing down on him. Jean didn’t really know what to make of his face, because he had never been good at reading people. Not even Jeremy, who was an open book highlighted in neon colours.

The alphabet noodle soup wasn’t kicking in at all. Not only did Jean not feel immortal—he didn’t feel any better, either. He guessed he would have to sleep it off.

“One last question. If you don’t mind, obviously.”

“Go ahead.”

Jeremy chewed on his lower lip. “You don’t do touching. But you’ll let me touch you. Why?”

At first Jean didn’t understand. Then he did, and he reached out for Jeremy’s hands. He put one over them and asked, “You mean this.” In fact, he didn’t ask, but rather stated.

“Yeah.” Careful, Jeremy separated his hands and sandwiched Jean’s between them.

It was a slightly uncomfortable position, lying with his arm stretched out and his head lolled to the side, so Jean dragged himself up to a sitting position. “Because it’s you.”

A thick silence settled between them. Then Jeremy said, “And what’s with me? Laila’s a cinnamon roll, but she doesn’t make it past your cut.”

“It’s a little difficult to explain.” Looking for the right words, Jean pursed his lips. “Since I came here, all of you Trojans care. But you _care_. It’s…” It was too abstract to be put into words. “I don’t know how to describe it to you. For some reason I trust you enough.”

“Out of the blue? Just like that?”

Jean grunted, frustrated. “No, I… Do you trust the Sun to rise every morning?”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

“But you don’t really have any proof that it will rise tomorrow. It’s always been that way, but maybe it won’t. There’s a chance it won’t. All the same, you trust it.”

Smiling, Jeremy nodded. “I do. What can I say?, I’m the kind of fool that trusts the Sun to rise.”

“Alright. So you understand now if I say that I trust you with myself the same way. It’s the best explanation I can give you, I’m sorry. I know you’re not going to hurt me. That’s with you. _Je sais que je suis à l’abri avec toi._ ”

“If you’re going to keep on using French, at least have the decency to teach me. I understood literally nothing. What was that?”

“Absolutely nothing. Nothing important, at least.”

“But I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the Trojan, Jeremy.” A yawn turned ‘Jeremy’ into ‘Jeremoah’.

The exhaustion was beginning to claw at Jean’s eyelids. He felt at such ease, which might be cold-induced, that he was dozing off already. For once, though, he was completely relaxed as he did so, his mind empty of any fear that his roommate might do something to him. A roommate that trusted the Sun to rise, befriended every rival he came across, and couldn’t speak French for his life.

Said roommate gently pushed him backwards. “Yeah, but the Trojan died informed. You’re falling asleep.”

“I know. Jeremy?”

“Right here.”

“Stay, please.” Because even after two years, at the end of the day Jean was a Raven, and he didn’t know how to be alone.

First Jeremy pulled the sheets up to cover Jean’s torso. Then he said, “Only if you promise me two things.”

Jean closed his hands into fists, and parted his lips to breathe. Damned blocked nose. “ _Dis-moi_.” It came off slightly more nasal than usual.

“One, you won’t push physical contact. With me or anyone in the team. I mean, if you want to do it it’s fine by me. More than fine, actually. But you know these times when I take your hand, or throw my arm around you?, the second any of that bothers you, you tell me, or shove me away, or whatever, but you make it stop. No non-con.”

Groggily, although his drowsy heart did race at the meaning of Jeremy’s words, Jean said, “But that’s a promise that benefits me, not you.”

“Exactly. Second, you’re gonna teach me goddamned French.”

He sounded so genuinely pissed when he spoke, Jean couldn’t help a grin. When Riko got angry because Jean used French to speak to Kevin, and he didn’t understand, Jean ended up bleeding. Now that it was Jeremy who got annoyed by Jean’s switching of languages, Jean ended up amused.

Whatever was happening to the Raven inside of him.

“Okay,” he said, closing his eyes and trusting Jeremy to keep his word. “Promised.”

“Both?”

“Both.”

“I’m gonna trust your word, Moreau. It’d better be worth something.”

Head throbbing from the long day and the cold, Jean simply closed his eyes as Jeremy took off his socks and sleeveless hoodie before lying down besides him. It took Jeremy a lot of tossing and turning in an attempt to find a comfortable position before he sighed. Then the bed creaked as he rolled on his side and threw an arm over Jean’s torso, the other slipping under the pillow in search of Jean’s hand.

As Jeremy’s fingers brushed Jean’s, as their hands found and claimed the other’s under the pillow and atop of the sheets, as he came a little closer to Jean though leaving some space between them nonetheless, he said, “Now I’m trusting you. A lot. Are you okay with this?”

If Jean went over Williams, Engle, Johnson, Volkov, and West, there wasn’t a single one who had ever touched his hands. Only his wrists to pin him to the bed. Jeremy wasn’t even touching his palm. All of them had towered atop of him only to crumble on his back, skin against skin. Jeremy’s chest wasn’t even brushing him. None of them had shown anything that wasn’t brutality. Jeremy brought their hands to his mouth and kissed Jean’s knuckles goodnight.

If Jean went over Williams, Engle, Johnson, Volkov, West, and Jeremy, there was only one who had ever had any right to Jean.

So Jean said, “ _Oui_ ,” and slept.

* * *

When Jean woke in the morning, Jeremy was still there. Under the morning light—because none of them had bothered with the curtains—Jeremy’s hair became a halo, and his tanned skin polished bronze. Jeremy himself became a creature out of reach.

In the end he woke to Jean’s sneezing. The first thing he did was squeezing Jean’s fingers before letting go. The second was pressing the back of his hand against his lips before sneezing as well. And the third was yawning and saying, “Hey, so guess who’s sick too?”

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this! Unlike with all my other works, I didn't push myself with deadlines and multichaptering, and I've honestly felt so good being free to write whatever, however, and whenever I wanted, without having to stay up late to post the due chapter. It's not anywhere near beautiful, but I'm still proud? Also, Jeremy and Jean <3 Love my boys


End file.
